CHAPTER V

IT was on a
dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of
my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the
instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless
thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the
rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was
nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished
light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it
breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate
the wretch whom with such
infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were
in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! -- Great God! His
yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries
beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth
of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more
horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the
same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his
shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.